I approached the June cicada invasion with the placidity of the nature-lover I am, but I have to admit, I am over it.
Grossing out my grown children when I pick up live insects is one thing. Having an angrily buzzing, red-eyed, amber winged, 17-year Brood XII Hemiptera tangled in my hair is another.
Early on, I looked down and discovered a cicada had attached to my chest in a parking lot, but I was unflappable. I calmly lowered my car window, and flicked him off my tee shirt to resume his duties.
And smiled.
Another week into this, my wristwatch decibel-meter went off while I was gardening, eliciting more adjustments.
I advised the guests to an upcoming patio party at our home that the time of arrival was set to coincide with the expected cessation of cicada activity. Since we had started to understand each others’ rhythms, the bugs cooperated and the party was a great success.
But no, we were not done.
On a cooler day, a wayward Lothario found his way under my sweater and hence into my house. He enjoyed precisely twenty-four steps into this new environment before going absolutely crazy with buzzing. I shrieked and threw off the sweater, then carried him out to where he belonged.
But it got worse on Friday.
I had recovered my Zen at yoga, and remaining dressed very sparingly, as one is for that type of thing, I went about my day.
After several trips into the yard, that infernal buzzing began.
I shook my hair! I flung my shirt out the door!
And yes, standing alone in my kitchen in my sports bra, I screamed.
I needed to flee the epicenter of occupation, so on that beautiful summer afternoon, I went shopping.
I like to joke that these cicadas are costing me a lot of money. But if that’s what it takes to stay sane until July, it’s an investment I’m willing to make. ©
